"Your ignorance about the royal family is there for all to see," wrote one angry reader. "The Queen would not butter her own toast. They have servants to do it for them."

Gosh. I hadn't thought of that. The author was anonymous, but the email had a strong whiff of Brigadier (retired) to it, perhaps from the Southern Highlands or one of the north shore's lesser pocket boroughs like East Lindfield or West Pymble. Then again, it might just have been Professor David Flint incognito.

A woman fretted that I might do something frightful when the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge turn up later this month. "Mr Carlton," she began. "During the forthcoming royal tour, it is to be hoped you will keep your mouth very tightly closed, as we do not wish to be seen as a country of bogans ... for a short period of time please refrain from your boorish, uncouth and, at times, ignorant comments."

Again there was no address, but she signed it "Mrs A. Wright", which I would have thought was a touch bogan itself – using the honorific and all that – but there you go.

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You can never be too careful with protocol. Or the grace notes, whatever they might be. Last week I was dismayed to hear the Prime Minister refer to the wife of the new Governor-General as "Lady Lynne."

Bad clanger, that. As even 15 minutes in front of Downton Abbey would inform you, Lady Lynne could only be the daughter of a Duke, Marquess or Earl. For a knight's wife, the correct form is "Lynne, Lady Cosgrove." It's not the end of all we hold dear, but if Downton Abbott is going to inflict more of these toe-curling anachronisms upon us it would be best to get them right.

The Latin I put into the mouth of the Pope also got caned. Look, for someone who scored a mark of nine out of 100 in my year 9 Latin exam, I thought I did OK. I never actually got past Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres – all Gaul is divided into three parts – the less than fascinating opening line of Caesar's Gallic War blockbuster. And as the Latin teacher acidly told me, two of those marks were for neatness and one for spelling my name correctly. Any fault belongs to Google Translate, not me.

The royal rules of etiquette

The rules for hobnobbing with royalty are ironclad. Happily, I have been leaked a cabinet document instructing ministers how to behave when Wills and Kate are here. It is worth quoting, in case you bump into them.

1) At first meeting, ministers are to bow low from the waist. Our sole lady cabinet minister, Julie Bishop, should curtsey by bending the knees outwards as fully as possible and sweeping one foot behind her. These gestures should be practised before a mirror to avoid the social disaster of toppling headlong at the royal feet.

2) There is no requirement to bow or curtsey to his royal highness Prince George of Cambridge. As he is only nine-months old, a respectful tug of the forelock will suffice.

3) Ministers should not begin any conversation. Their royal highnesses may, if they so wish. There must be no mention of sport. While Prince William will one day be our king, it must be remembered that he always cheers for the home country and will not welcome any suggestion that England's recent Ashes tour of Australia was a disaster second only to the fall of Singapore in 1942.

I hope this helps, especially the bit about not opening the chatting. I learnt that from Jim McClelland, the late Labor senator who, finding himself at a Canberra reception with the even later Princess Margaret, naturally sought to be agreeable.

"How's your sister?" he asked politely.

Margaret, who had taken a gin or three against the heat of the Canberra summer, was frostily unamused.

"Still Queen," she snapped.

A fond farewell to Frykberg

There were emotional scenes, as we say, at Friday's farewell to Ian Frykberg, the colourful media identity who died this week. The wake was at Randwick racecourse, which gives you an idea of how well he was loved.

Frikkers, as everyone knew him, was once the Herald's Canberra political editor and then chief of the London bureau. Switching to television, he became an editorial heavy at Channel Nine. In the third stage of his career he turned a handsome quid by crunching the first multimillion-dollar deals for televised sport, here and in Britain.

A big and imposing former rugby prop, he was also one of the great lunchers, a vocation he pursued at Olympic and Commonwealth level. ABC veterans still recall, with a shudder, the event known as The Day Frykberg Destroyed The London Office.

It was 1979. Ever hospitable, he had invited the ABC's London correspondents, five or six of them, to lunch at a favourite West End restaurant, presumably at the expense of the Herald's then proprietor, the unwittingly generous Sir Warwick Fairfax. Drinks were taken against the chill of the English summer, and taken again. As usual, it was a long day's journey into night, and by eight o'clockish, only Frykberg remained vaguely vertical.

This might not have mattered on a slow news day, but it was not. A violent tempest had struck Britain's most famous yacht race, the Fastnet Ocean classic, with boats foundering left, right and centre, and sailors drowning. Not one ABC hack was capable of typing a coherent sentence, let alone broadcasting it into a microphone to Australian audiences tuning in to the radio news at breakfast time. Leaving the sleeping dogs to lie, Frykberg sailed off into the night to file his own story for the Herald.

The ABC lot got their own back a few weeks later. AWOL in Paris for another luncheon, Frikkers entirely missed the IRA's assassination of Lord Louis Mountbatten.

So Vale, mate. We think of you fondly. Those were the good times, when journalism was fun. The treadmill of the 24 hour news cycle and, worse, modern management's iron grip on expense accounts have ended those glory days forever.